The Rattlesnake Season

by Larry D. Sweazy

  The spring rains had swollen the streambeds, and rushing, muddy water gushed up out of a well-worn hole in the ground not too far ahead of Josiah.

  The roiling water hadn’t crested the banks of the streambed, but it was close to flooding over into a well-defined floodplain. It would have been impossible to navigate the buckboard across the Blanco River if the rushing water had broken out of its banks and not been contained in an underground riverbed.

  Their timing was just right.

  The limestone ledges stair-stepped upward to about fifty feet at the pinnacle, then flattened out. Grasses and bushes grew happily on the rocky shelves, while the top of the outcropping was dotted with various types of trees: elm, mesquite, juniper, and oak. The trail edged along the river, in between the bank and the limestone stairs.

  Josiah thought about doing some hunting on top of the limestone, but decided that it was too late in the day.

  There would be plenty of creatures that lived near the water. Swallows were already swarming, diving, and soaring widely over the water, eating as many flies as they could gather in their open mouths. And he’d seen signs of plenty of rabbit, deer, and coyote—their paw prints pressed in the fresh mud.

  He’d probably have more luck hunting closer to evening, if they found themselves near a watering hole.

  The last bit of fresh meat was stowed away on the wagon, and all that was left of the dry goods, beans, and jerky—as well as the food sent along from Mayor Kessler, but there was no way they were breaking into mourning food, food meant to save the captain’s family some trouble and give them a bit of comfort.

  A cedar tree stood in the middle of the streambed that grew quickly into a river, and there was a large nest in the top of the tree, which, at the moment, appeared to be vacant.

  Knowing little about hawks or eagles and their mating times, Josiah wasn’t sure if there would be eggs in the nest or not. He hadn’t seen any big birds in the sky recently, but then he hadn’t been looking, either.

  The tree looked a little spindly to try and climb anyway, but for some reason, food was solidly on Josiah’s mind.

  He was almost tempted to challenge Scrap to climb the tree, taking advantage of the kid’s eagerness to prove himself. But he couldn’t bring himself to indulge in that kind of behavior. It just wasn’t his way. Besides, it was probably past time for fresh eggs anyway. Chicks were probably hunkered down inside the nest, eyeing him with fright and uncertainty. There was no way Josiah could bring himself to kill a chick, a youngster of any kind. Not now.

  His life would have to depend on killing and eating something tough and old, like the rabbit Juan Carlos had cooked the night before.

  There were moments when he wondered what the hell he was doing, riding the trail as a Ranger, when he had most certainly lost his nerve, his gut instinct to kill.

  Men with Soldier’s Heart talked of the same thing, all the while battling for their own measures of sanity. He wasn’t crazy. He was sure of that. And if he had the opportunity to shoot Charlie Langdon square in the forehead, then he wouldn’t hesitate, not for one second. He longed to be the one to face Charlie down, and that in itself reassured him that he wasn’t crazy, or useless, or, worse, a coward who’d lost his trigger finger.

  There was no question in Josiah’s mind that if it came down to killing or being killed, his instincts were ready to awaken.

  Juan Carlos brought the wagon to a stop again, this time more suddenly, a loud “Whoa” accompanying his hard pull on the reins.

  Uncertain why Juan had stopped, Josiah swung Clipper back around, just in time to see Scrap Elliot reaching to pull his rifle out of its saddle sheath and aim upward, at the top of a rocky cliff.

  An Indian sat on a pale white stallion, staring down at them.

  “Don’t shoot,” Josiah yelled at Scrap.

  Scrap settled his rifle against his cheek and sighted the Indian, ignoring Josiah’s command.

  “I’m serious, Elliot, don’t shoot.”

  Josiah quickly unholstered the Peacemaker and brought the gun straight up so the barrel was even with his face, pointing straight into the sky.

  “You’re serious?” Scrap smirked.

  “Yes.”

  Juan Carlos sat impatiently on the seat of the buckboard. He had no firearm that Josiah knew of. It had been taken into small account by everyone but Scrap that the Mexican was harmless, more a hero than a killer, but since there was a warrant out for him . . . Josiah had insisted that he hand over his weapon, a small-caliber derringer that looked more like a woman’s gun.

  Both men, Josiah and the Mexican, knew, of course, that Juan Carlos had a knife stuffed inside his right boot. Josiah had been blessed at the Menger by that very same blade . . . his life saved because of his weariness and lack of scouting. Scrap wasn’t aware of the knife, and that was just fine with Josiah.

  The Indian appeared to be alone. He sat on the pale white horse, looking down on the three men.

  He wore a deerskin breechclout and no shirt, which showed, even at a distance, black lines drawn permanently onto the Indian’s sun-bronzed skin. Buckskin leggings covered his legs, and bison-hide moccasins protected his feet. A small white feather hung on a braid of black hair that glistened in the sun. There was no sign of any garb, no headdress or war bonnet, that suggested he was a warrior or intent on attack. He looked more like a scout.

  “He is Tonkawa,” Juan Carlos said.

  “He is a not threat, Elliot. Put the gun down,” Josiah ordered. He knew the Tonkawa didn’t wear war bonnets; they were nothing like the Comanche.

  “Ain’t no such thing as a redskin who’s not a savage killer. They are a threat to every living, breathing Anglo in Texas and beyond, and I mean to make certain the threat is extinguished.” Spit spewed out of Scrap’s mouth, and his finger trembled on the trigger.

  Josiah pointed the Peacemaker at Scrap’s head. “I’m not asking, Elliot.”

  Tears welled up in Scrap’s eyes. “Comanches killed my ma and pa, Wolfe,” he said through gritted teeth. “Butchered them like they were animals.”

  “This Indian is a friend, not a Comanche. They have scouted for the Rangers for years. Now remove your aim.” Josiah cocked the hammer in position, knowing full well he was on the Colt’s empty chamber.

  Scrap let out a yell that was as painful as it was startling, then let the barrel of his rifle drop.

  Josiah breathed a secret sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted to account for to Pete Feders or Major John B. Jones was a dead Tonkawa. When he looked back up to the top of the rock, the Indian was gone.

  “We have not seen the last of that one,” Juan Carlos said.

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Josiah answered.

  “They are probably aware of the captain’s death. They have been following us for many miles, and will more than likely see us into Austin.”

  Josiah was annoyed at Juan Carlos. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought you would see for yourself. But I was wrong.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  Juan Carlos nodded. “My apologies, Señor Wolfe.”

  “No need. I know what to look for. I just missed the signs for some reason.”

  “Indians don’t protect no one,” Scrap interjected, wiping a tear away from his eye with his sleeve.

  Josiah lowered the Peacemaker’s hammer back into position, holstered the gun, then eased Clipper over next to Scrap.

  “You’ve got a little learning to do about Indians and the like. This isn’t Cooke County. There is such a thing as friendlys.” He paused, saw the pain of loss twisted across Scrap’s face, and recognized a bit of himself in the hard, frightened glare that stared back at him. “How long have your ma and pa been dead?”

  “Little over a year. Only family I got left is a little sister, Myra Lynn. She’s with a friend of my ma’s, a church lady that will raise Myra Lynn right. I couldn’t do it. Don’t know nothing about being a pa to a half-growed little girl. I send mon
ey when I can. Get home even less. Some days I hope I never see Myra Lynn again ’cause she looks just like my ma, and it brings all those bad memories right to the top of my head. Other days, that’s all I want to do, ride home as straightaway as I can ’cause my heart is longing to see my mama’s eyes.”

  Josiah nodded. He’d give the kid a bit of a break. Had to now that they had something in common. But that didn’t mean he liked Scrap Elliot. Maybe he just understood him a little bit more. “All right, then. But you have to follow my lead on the Indians hereabouts. Not every rock has a rattlesnake lying underneath it.”

  “Well,” Scrap said. “I ’spect we’re about to find out.” He nodded, and Josiah followed his gaze.

  The Indian that had stared down at them from the ridge was heading their way, across the river, followed by three other men—two more Tonkawa on horses and one Anglo on foot, who looked an awful lot like Vi McClure.

  CHAPTER 16

  Juan Carlos leaned forward, slid his hand down to his boot, and pulled up his pant leg.

  There was no question now that the white man with the Tonkawa was Vi McClure, but even from where Josiah sat, he could see that the Scot was a prisoner, his hands bound behind his back and his waist tied in heavy hemp rope that connected to the last rider.

  The big Scot looked weary and pale. He was staggering, his face dirtied and covered in scratches, like he had been pulled through a thicket of blackberry bushes. A bloodied cloth was loosely wrapped below the knee of his right leg, an obvious sign of the gunshot wound deposited by Willis, and each time McClure put his foot down to move forward—given little choice by the Tonkawa who had him bound to his horse—it looked to cause him a great deal of pain. A grimace was plastered on his face that made him barely recognizable.

  Anything that put the old Mexican on alert made Josiah a little more than nervous, but he wasn’t sure why Juan Carlos was pulling the knife into a moment’s grasp—whether he was concerned about McClure, who looked like he was of little threat being as weak as he appeared, or the Tonkawa, which also didn’t make much sense, but then, Josiah thought, he really didn’t know how the Indians looked on a Mexican . . . or a Mexican on a Tonkawa. He was pretty sure Juan Carlos held the Tonkawa in a respectable regard . . . but he wasn’t entirely sure.

  He didn’t want to move for his gun, didn’t want to encourage Scrap or startle the Tonkawa into an unnecessary shooting match . . . but the air had changed quickly, and now it was full of uncertainty and nervousness, even though the sky was blue and it was a perfect spring day.

  Josiah had his doubts about what he was seeing, even though he had tried not to hold Vi McClure to account for the captain’s death.

  At the moment, it looked like he had been wrong—and Scrap had been right. McClure was a killer and, worse, a traitor, a Charlie Langdon sympathizer, a member of the killer’s gang since he had run along with them. Josiah had to wonder how he could have been so stupid not to have seen through McClure’s act, but he would have never considered a Ranger to be a traitor. Especially one that had Captain Fikes’s approval.

  The lead Indian stopped a few feet from the three men. “Josiah Wolfe?”

  Curious, and surprised to hear his name come from an Indian’s mouth, Josiah nodded. “Yes.”

  “I am Little Spots. I have a letter for you from Sergeant Feders.” The Indian pulled a neatly folded piece of parchment out of a small buffalo-hide satchel and offered it to Josiah.

  Josiah nudged Clipper over to the Indian, took the letter, then backed away slowly, never taking his eyes off Little Spots, his two trail mates, or Vi McClure . . . who had offered nothing to say and would not look Josiah in the face. He hung his head down and massaged his leg with a low, aggravated, groan.

  The letter was sealed with a bit of candle wax, and Josiah was mildly surprised that Feders had the utensils and the capability to send a proper letter—but once he thought about it, he realized he shouldn’t have been surprised at all. Captain Fikes had been a prolific letter writer, a top-notch communicator. Josiah had received a letter of the same sort ordering him to come to San Antonio to escort Charlie Langdon back to Tyler. Feders, more than anything else as far as Josiah could tell, was a student of the captain’s ways. It was, after a number of hard-battled days, a hopeful thought.

  He broke the seal and read the letter: Wolfe,

  If you are reading this letter, then Little Spots has been successful in finding you. Ranger McClure was left for dead, tied to a tree. He claims innocence. But that is neither your decision or mine to make. Retain him in close custody and see him to Austin, where he may make his own case to the proper authorities.

  I am continuing in pursuit of Charlie Langdon. We are heading north at the moment and a half day behind him. Please pass this communiqué on to Major Jones, or the nearest ranking Ranger, on your arrival, and unless the major has specific orders for you, await word from me about your next assignment.

  Please pass on the other letter, I have entrusted to Little Spots, to the captain’s wife and daughter. I fear I will miss the captain’s funeral while performing my duties, and it is my desire to convey my condolences personally.

  With regards,

  Sergeant Peter L. Feders

  Josiah took a deep breath, nodded slightly, then looked up and made direct eye contact with Vi McClure.

  “ ’ Tis not true, what the sergeant says, Wolfe. I am innocent.”

  “Feders made no judgment about your crimes, or lack of, and neither will I. You will have a chance to speak for yourself.” Josiah turned his attention to Little Spots. “I appreciate this. Is there anything we can offer you?”

  Little Spots shook his head no. “Be wary. There is a battle coming on the northern plains. Though it may be far from here, those that were once enemies are gathering together against the buffalo hunters, against the white man. It will not matter to them that you are carrying the dead. The smell may draw them to you.”

  “Thank you. I am aware of this coming together. We feared you were Comanche upon first sight of you.”

  “There is nothing to fear from us,” Little Spots said. He handed another letter to Josiah, then pulled his horse back to the Indian who had custody of McClure and said, “Turn him over to them. We are glad to be rid of this darkness.”

  The Indian, who looked a lot like Little Spots, so much so that they were probably brothers, agreed, and dismounted from his horse.

  “Tie him to the back of the wagon, Elliot,” Josiah said, glaring at McClure.

  “But ’tis a long walk to Austin, and my leg is more than a wee bit infected,” McClure protested.

  “Then Juan Carlos will drag you.”

  Scrap took the rope from the Indian, grabbing it away as quickly as possible, saying nothing to the Indian, and did as he was told, looking at Josiah with a shade of approval that had not been apparent before then.

  Josiah noticed, but didn’t think much of the look. He felt as betrayed by McClure as the rest of them . . . now that it looked like he had been wrong. But he still favored the opportunity for a man to prove himself innocent if it were possible.

  Once Scrap secured McClure to the back of the buckboard, Little Spots and the other two Indians rode off slowly at first, then broke into a full gallop, heading northeast, probably to catch up with Feders. At least that was the assumption Josiah was left to make on his own.

  Juan Carlos relaxed, let his pant leg fall back over his boot, and urged on the horse that was pulling the wagon.

  “ ’ Tis not right, Wolfe, pullin’ me along like a low-life criminal. An injured one at that. I could die out here.”

  A hawk screeched overhead, drawing Josiah’s attention momentarily away from McClure and the trail ahead.

  San Marcos was over the next hill, and Austin wasn’t too far beyond that. The journey with the Scot wouldn’t last too long, and for that, Josiah was grateful.

  The Tonkawa probably had little desire to ride into the capital city. Not with every Indian, friend a
nd foe alike, under the cloud of suspicion that they were gathering for another battle. Some men, like Scrap, didn’t trust anyone whose skin was not white . . . while others, like Josiah, didn’t trust any man white or red, and if he did, it seemed he always came to regret it, sooner rather than later. Like now. With Vi McClure.

  “There’s a few critters who’d be happy for that, McClure,” Josiah said. “It sure would save a lot of people a lot of grief if you’d oblige them by departing this world before we reached Austin. But something tells me that won’t happen. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  It did not take long before El Camino Real crossed the San Marcos River.

  The town of San Marcos had only been settled by Anglos for about thirty years or so, and as in San Antonio, there was no railroad that serviced the town . . . yet. But with all of the ginning and milling that sustained the coffers of the town bank, it was only a question of time before the railroaders took notice and started laying track to connect San Marcos, and all of South Texas, with the rest of the state.

  Josiah was not bitter about the railroad; he had just seen how it changed people’s lives for better and for worse. If the tracks had come through Seerville, he’d probably still be the marshal, still following in his father’s footsteps, still questioning himself about why he had ever trusted Charlie Langdon enough to appoint him as his deputy in the first place.

  Still, after all these years, Josiah didn’t have an answer for that, for why he had trusted Charlie.

  His mind was foggy for more than a few years after the war. Charlie had come home a hero, a survivor, a teller of tales, and Josiah had seen him commit acts of courage more than once. What was missing were acts of honor. Now that he thought about it, honor had always been hard to find among Charlie’s actions. The only thing that was consistent, the one thing that always accompanied Charlie Langdon, was blood—and death. Always. If honor was present, it was left on the battlefield, and the dead told no tales . . . at least that anyone cared to hear.